


Try Not To Kiss Him

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - Ian Fleming, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied Relationships, Implied Spy John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sequel, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: In this sequel to a previous fic, "Try Not To Punch Him", James Bond has been 'borrowed' to work with John and Sherlock on a secret mission for Mycroft. Now they're engaged in the mission, but Sherlock is curious about (read 'jealous of') whatever's happened between John and James in the past, as well as struggling with increasingly unruly feelings of attraction toward John. At the same time, John is kind of caught in the middle of the past he can't technically discuss and the present, where he's also dealing with romantic feelings toward his flatmate.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 16,2016was: “I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British”: Have a character (or characters) from another British work crop up in some way in your offering."  -Watson's WoesJWPWarnings:Canon-typical violence, Hand-waving at super secret spy stuff, Manly smooches.





	Try Not To Kiss Him

**Author's Note:**

> This was a mostly finished fill for the July 16th, 2016 prompt that I just couldn't figure out how to end, but when I brought it back up to poke at for July 2017's prompts, an answer came to me! And here we are. You don't necessarily _have_ to read the first one for this to make sense, but I included the link in the summary just in case. ;D

Sherlock Holmes’ fingers were practically a blur as he typed, eyes flitting over the code appearing on the screen in front of him, his face looking sharp and otherworldly in the blue glow. The light from the computer terminal was the primary source of illumination; the rest of the office dark, save for the intermittent tiny flashes from the penlight John Watson gripped in his teeth as he flicked through files in a metal drawer which had, until very recently, been securely locked.

“I know you said you and Bond worked together when you were in the army,” Sherlock murmured, voice barely audible over the soft clicking of the low-profile keyboard. John didn’t say a thing, though his fingers slowed in their motions. Undeterred, Sherlock continued after just long enough to be sure that John wasn’t going to say anything. “However, since he is a Commander in the Royal Navy and you were a Captain in the Royal Army, the scenarios wherein you two would be working together are limited.”

John made a soft grunting sound that ended in a sigh, shaking his head as he continued riffling through the files in search of a specific set of numbers or words that might be relevant to their mission.

It had been three weeks since James Bond, an operative for MI6 and frequent liaison with operatives from MI5, had been sent—possibly as an obscure attempt at humour—by Mycroft Holmes to request Sherlock Holmes’ assistance in an information-gathering operation. The initial meeting between Sherlock Holmes and James Bond had not gone well; John had arrived home to find James and Sherlock in the middle of 221B’s sitting room floor, James having just minutes before tried to intimidate the detective, after which he’d been forced to physically restrain the furiously displeased Sherlock. Previous to that occasion, Sherlock hadn’t known anything about the part of John’s former military career that had intersected with the British secret service, and James had left it to John to give a thoroughly scrubbed version of the truth, but as soon as Sherlock figured out there was something more to the story, he hadn’t let up trying to pry/wheedle/trick/coerce that something out of John ever since.

“Furthermore,” Sherlock continued when John remained wordless, “you have continued to refuse to elaborate on your blatantly expurgated story about Bond visiting the base where you were stationed in Afghanistan and your treatment of him for some minor wounds.” He paused, scrolled up and then down again briefly to review the code sequence on the screen, and then pressed the ‘enter’ key with the tiniest of flourishes. “Bond refuses to discuss it at all, simply repeating in that infuriatingly casual manner of his that any exposition on the matter will come from you.”

Reaching the last file in the drawer, John took the penlight out of his mouth and slid the file drawer shut rapidly, up until the last instant, when he eased it closed with a gentle, metallic _click-thunk_. “I’m fairly certain you’re quite aware of what the Official Secrets Act is, Sherlock,” John finally replied in a low, dry tone. He opened the next file drawer down, put the penlight back between his teeth, and began going through the next set of files.

“If I gave the slightest bit of a damn about the specifics of whatever the actual project, mission, or initiative was in which the two of you were involved, I could no doubt find out those details on my own,” whisper-rumbled Sherlock as he slid open a memory stick and thrust it into the appropriate USB port, just as the screen flashed a ‘Ready to begin secure file transfer?’ message. “What I cannot find out on my own and, therefore, must know from you, is what happened with you and Bond, specifically. It was instantly clear that there was more between you than a _doctor/patient_ relationship, as well as every indication it was nothing that brief or incidental.”

A growling sigh was John’s only answer, as he didn’t remove the penlight or even slow in his perusal of the files this time, though he did keep an eye on Sherlock’s reflection in the glass of a picture hung just above the filing cabinet. As clever as Sherlock was, John was better off saying nothing at all, and as much as he admired that cleverness, was often awed by that immensely brilliant mind, this was the sort of situation in which he also resented it and the dogged persistence of the man attached to that mind.

“I find your silence highly incriminating, John,” Sherlock informed him, ostensibly watching the progress bar on the screen, but eyes refocusing to take in John’s faint reflection from behind him. John glanced up this time to find Sherlock’s secondary reflection in the computer screen, which was also reflected in the glass John had been peeking at, and he knew by the angle that he was being similarly reflected and observed. Feeling just a tad foolish at being caught, he shifted his position to hide a little more of his own face.

Over their earpieces, all set to the same private channel, came James Bond’s quiet voice from elsewhere in the previously secure facility, “Terribly sorry to interrupt the interrogation, gentlemen, but I’ve encountered three small glitches in our program.”

“Where?” Sherlock demanded, voice still barely above a whisper.

John didn’t speak, but hastened in the flipping of files, feet shifting as he resisted the urge to stop and go help James.

“Just east of the labs,” James replied, voice calm, though his breathing was slightly faster than normal. No doubt he was hurrying to avoid whatever—whoever—had come along to bollix up their plan. “Two guards and, apparently, one of the scientists.”

“No one was scheduled to be here,” Sherlock hissed, pulling out his mobile and thumbing through several things on the screen before bringing up a 3D floorplan of the building with various icons indicating whatever details he’d programmed the thing to show him. Currently, it was showing two stationary green dots in one box and another green dot in motion two levels down, just then approaching a long, narrow rectangle—the elevator—not very far ahead of three red dots. “Did you get—” began Sherlock, but James cut him off.

“Yes, of course I got the samples.” He then made a sub-vocal sound of wordless irritation, but whether it was at Sherlock’s question or something else wasn’t clear.

“Found the hard copies,” John said in soft triumph after snatching the penlight from his mouth, having continued to search the files as James and Sherlock spoke. “Five files… project numbers and dates… and some of the names we’re looking for.” He plucked out the files, flipped through a few more behind them, and then stuffed those he’d taken into the black rucksack on the floor near his feet. “Where are you, James?”

“I’ve got him,” Sherlock said before James could do, holding up his mobile and waggling it briefly before looking at it again. “He’s two floors down and just arriving at the elevators. Use the stairs, Bond. We need another…” he glanced at the progress of the data transfer and finished with a tone of impatient displeasure, “three minutes, not counting shutting down and getting out, so likely closer to five or six.”

“You don’t ask for much,” James commented coolly. Sherlock snorted, biting his tongue—literally—on a sharp retort.

John scooped up the rucksack and put it unceremoniously in Sherlock’s lap. Leaning over his shoulder, he caught Sherlock’s wrist and held him still as he quickly studied the little dots on the small screen of Sherlock’s phone. “Sherlock will finish getting the info in here while I come to you.”

“John, no,” Sherlock said immediately.

At the exact same moment, James said, “Meet me in the stairwell, John.”

“On my way,” John said, pointing past Sherlock’s frowning face at the computer screen, his quiet tone taking on the no-nonsense commanding note that was all ‘Captain Watson’ and only a little ‘Doctor Watson’. “You’re here to do this, so do it. I’m here to do this…” he pulled his gun from the discreet holster at the back of his trousers, “so I’m off to do it.”

Sherlock started to rise, gripping the rucksack with his free hand to keep it from sliding to the floor, but John pushed him back into the chair by a firm hand at his shoulder. “John—”

Cutting him off, John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder, pointing at the door to the office with his gun. “You lock that behind me and get this done. If we’re not back to collect you by that time, you head down to the exit point. I’ll remind you we don’t have backup, here; we’re on our own.”

“I am well aware, but I’m not leaving you behind,” Sherlock almost growled, expression stubborn with a side of burgeoning outrage.

“If you let me get on, you won’t have to,” John retorted, one corner of his mouth quirking upward before he tugged on the black knit balaclava he’d previously tucked into his pocket after they’d gained entry to the office.

“Sooner than later, John,” James murmured over their earpieces.

Huffing out a sharp breath, Sherlock continued to scowl, but he stopped arguing. Whatever he might prefer, he was still intelligent enough to recognise the logic of the moment. John squeezed his shoulder once again, then patted it before letting go and slipping quickly through the door.

~~~

Watching John go, Sherlock observed how his body language had become markedly different to what it was previously; he’d gone from ordinary John Watson to the John Watson Sherlock usually only got to see when chasing down someone dangerous—or when things went pear-shaped on a case, which was rarer, as a rule. Due to the dim room and John’s focus being on getting out in a quiet hurry, the pink hue briefly visiting Sherlock’s face went unremarked, though Sherlock was quite aware of the surge of possibly inappropriate warmth that trickled through him.

Sherlock hardly heard John’s soft, “On my way,” over the communications link as he fought the surge of arousal that ‘Captain Watson’ always brought out in him—though far more strongly of late.

The next three minutes were excruciating. Excruciating, but quite interesting.

As soon as the door was locked behind John, Sherlock went to the other terminal in the office and used his fairly excellent ‘hacking’ skills to get into the building’s CCTV network, hoping to see what was happening with John, and Bond, whom Sherlock had stubbornly refused to call by his given name. The outgoing CCTV feed had been blocked and then replaced with a set of looped sequences, but the internal feed was still active, and therefore accessible to the one who’d arranged that block-and-loop tactic in the first place—Sherlock, of course.

He found the multi-level live feed to the stairwell after about forty-two seconds, bringing up nine camera views on one screen. Just in time to see a grainy black and white image of Bond—his face was hidden by a balaclava, as well, but John couldn’t have got there yet, plus Bond moved subtly differently to John—slipping through a door and fiddling with the handle for a moment before putting himself in the safest corner and glancing upward. He held a small, sleek gun in one hand, though both he and John had been ‘advised’ to go unarmed in order to prevent any incidents—read as ‘ordered’ not to arm themselves so Mycroft wouldn’t have to try and explain any dead bodies in a facility he had been strictly told was ‘hands off’ by someone who could actually make trouble for the elder Holmes brother, assuming this little fact-finding mission didn’t succeed.

On another level, from another one of the nine cameras’ feeds, John made almost exactly the same stealthy motions entering the stairwell, only he leaned out cautiously to peer downward before easing along the wall toward the first section of stairs leading to the level below.

The progress bar crept slowly onward, somehow creating a time dilation effect that was patently impossible, and yet Sherlock could swear he was experiencing the seconds passing at a much slower rate than normal. Absurd.

Noting Bond’s head snapping back to face the door he’d just gone through, Sherlock was momentarily frustrated that whatever was happening wasn’t at all obvious in the moderate-quality CCTV feed. He almost immediately felt a strange mix of relief and alarm when their communications channel conveyed the echoing booms of a metal-framed door being vigorously assaulted. Two men with the muscular builds and mannerisms of professional thugs—currently acting as security guards—burst through the door a few seconds later, brandishing rather large guns, shouting at Bond to drop his weapon and surrender.

Sherlock heard John’s quiet murmur in his ear via the tiny earbud transceiver, “Not bloody likely. On your right, James; I’ve got the left.”

With a quietly crisp, “Yep,” Bond dropped to one knee and fired his small, but quite efficient enough, thank you, Walther PPK. His single shot seemed to acquire a Doppler effect at the same time as the echo in the stairwell, for John—whom Sherlock could conveniently see two frames over and one up—had fired at very nearly the same instant. Both of the guards dropped with sounds of intense pain and anger, one clutching his left knee and the other curling around his right knee.

The scientist—possibly an assumption on Bond’s part, but then this man was the only one of the three wearing a lab coat and was built much less bulkily—had rushed in behind the guards, but ducked back out again at the sound of gunfire. Bond pushed past the writhing guards to catch the door before it could close, clearly intending to stop the man in the lab coat before he could get far. The door never closed completely before Bond was dragging his captive back into the stairwell with an arm around the man’s neck and gun apparently prodding his lumbar region.

“How much longer up there?” Bond asked, only the sharper sound of his breathing indicating anything was happening beyond a casual stroll, his tone utterly urbane.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, sounding as if he were jogging down the stairs, which he was. His movements economical and efficient, John kept his gun trained on the guards as he approached Bond’ location. “Sherlock, you okay?”

“Yes!” Jumping guiltily, having momentarily forgotten his own task, Sherlock looked at the other monitor to find the progress bar nearly full. “Less than a minute left,” he said, forcing his voice to normalcy despite his pounding heart.

“What do we do with this one, then?” Bond asked, giving the man in his grasp a little shake. “Why are you here this late? Don’t you know too much overtime is dangerous to your health?”

A humorous snort came from John, who was just then reaching Bond’s level. “James, please.”

“Spoilsport,” accused Bond in an unrepentant rumble that was also rather flirty somehow.

Sherlock swallowed heavily, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk and giving himself a stern internal talking-to while returning his eyes to the progress bar and keeping them there. He had no right to be jealous of anything between John and Bond, had never dared say a word about the thoughts and feelings he’d been having about John—thoughts and feelings he’d been certain John would find inappropriate, until he’d seen and heard John interacting with James Bond. _Something_ had happened between them, something intimate and personal, something that led Sherlock to the almost certain knowledge that John’s saying he wasn’t gay didn’t automatically mean he was straight. Logically, if that was true, then… Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat that felt approximately the size of a rat—one of those monstrous sewer rats that might easily carry off a small child.

Though his eyes were on the screen, the majority of his attention was still trained on the earbud in his left ear, through which he heard rustling noises and a soft, impatient vocalisation that didn’t sound like John _or_ Bond. Still, no indications of further trouble, so Sherlock kept his gaze locked on the computer monitor.

A large portion of a minute later, the progress bar flashed once and disappeared, to be immediately replaced with the words ‘Secure File Transfer Complete’. Sherlock snatched the memory stick out of the USB port and slid it closed in one smooth action, ending with it tucked into his trouser pocket. “Done here,” he said into their channel, turning to look at the monitor showing the internal CCTV feed again. “What now?”

The man in the lab coat—scientist or not—was tied to the stairwell’s railing by his own white coat, Bond still crouching next to him. John was wrapping something around the wounded leg of one of the burly thugs—guards, whatever—and Sherlock was fairly certain it was the injured man’s own belt. The second guard was lying on his side in a partial foetal position, apparently unconscious, and it looked as though John had already done the same for him; a tourniquet, of course. Though the video feed wasn’t the best, Sherlock could tell there wasn’t enough blood on the floor near either guard to indicate they were in danger of bleeding out. Even so, John was still a doctor, he might not lose any sleep over shooting them, but he wouldn’t feel right not doing _something_ to keep them from dying before help could arrive.

“We rendezvous where we agreed,” Bond replied when John didn’t immediately speak. Of course he wouldn’t say where in front of their three captives.

“Where we’ll phone emergency services,” John said a moment later.

“You old softy,” Bond murmured fondly.

“Shut it,” was John’s reply, though it was in the same easy tone John often used when telling Sherlock the same thing; the words might be terse, but the way they were spoken was very much the opposite.

Sherlock ground his teeth as he shut down the two computers and rapidly put everything back as they’d found it. “I’m heading for the rendezvous point, then,” he said with genuine terseness. That fond verbal abuse was _his_ , not James Bond’s! It should be Sherlock fighting off dangerous brutes with John, or trading quips over those brutes once conquered, and there was Bond stealing Sherlock’s…

“Nearly done, here,” John said, voice business-like enough, but there was an undercurrent of something Sherlock had often sought to bring out in John—an intensity that was like leashed excitement. He was enjoying this, all of it, but most especially the opportunity to use his skills in helping to take down the guards. “We’ll see you shortly.”

Though Sherlock knew John was talking to him, despite the lack of any names spoken, he stood still just outside the office he’d just re-locked. Jealousy. Sherlock was jealous of Bond, of how John was with him, of knowing there was something between the two of them that was, apparently, _not_ between Sherlock and John. Not even in the form of anecdotes or ‘war stories’ shared with him by John. And a primitive, selfish, surprisingly strong part of Sherlock was almost livid with the urge to snatch John away from Bond and make it clear to his flatmate and friend to whom he belonged—and it was not James Bond, regardless of whatever had happened between them in the past.

“Fuck,” breathed Sherlock, astonished and a little bit appalled at himself, as well as still being rather uncomfortably aroused.

“Trouble?” The question, surprisingly, came from Bond.

Sherlock hadn’t realised he’d let the word escape his lips, at first, and grimaced in annoyance at his own lack of control. Shaking his head, he continued along the corridor, muttering, “Nothing, minor problem with the door. It’s fine now. Moving on.”

~~~

John and James reached the exit they’d all agreed upon, moving swiftly, but still cautiously, in case there were any more surprises awaiting them. It was immediately clear that Sherlock had reached it first, because not only was the door propped open by the rucksack John had passed to his friend before leaving him to help James, but outside the hand-span gap came sounds of a clatter and struggling—once one had heard that particular rustle of cloth and harsh, controlled breathing, it was easily identifiable.

Although James should have been the one to go through first, given his far more extensive experience in the field, John slipped past him and out without hesitation, most of his focus on getting to Sherlock.

Just outside the door, Sherlock was fighting a man in a uniform just like the other security guards wore, but with a dark blue balaclava and gloves, and with a much leaner build than the guards who usually worked security for that building. Off to one side was a gun, either tossed or knocked to the ground, explaining the clatter, and even as John felt James come even with him, he watched Sherlock and his opponent go through a flurry of motion, further proof that the unknown man was more than an ordinary security guard. The defensive and offensive moves he was employing were clearly based in the martial arts, rather than the untrained bar-brawl style they usually encountered on such occasions.

Gun out, mouth opening to order Sherlock’s foe to stand down, John didn’t even get the chance; in a blur of focussed motion, Sherlock got through his opponent’s offences to jab him in the midsection. Blending almost instantly from one stance to another, Sherlock followed with a whirl and a kick of one long leg, connecting perfectly with the _faux_ guard’s head, putting him on the ground with a multi-part thud.

Watching the fallen man for a long moment, Sherlock then turned to look at John and James while taking a few longer, deeper breaths, his expression going from intense concentration to subtle triumph as he then knelt next to the mystery guard-imposter to quickly search him.

“Nice work,” James murmured, the unconscious man’s gun already scooped up in his free hand, his own gun still out and ready. John nodded, feeling a familiar mix of admiration and arousal, but when he tore his eyes away from Sherlock to meet James’ gaze, he knew his reactions had been noticed. James cocked one brow at him. “Perhaps we might go have a drink after everything’s been taken care of,” James suggested, expression mild and amicable, but his eyes promised an outlet for John’s potentially inappropriate urges if John wanted one.

Rising fluidly to his feet and taking two long steps to place himself at John’s side, Sherlock looked first at James, saying, “I’m happy enough to lend him to you now and then,” before turning to John and putting one hand to his shoulder, gripping the cloth there as he continued in a lower, rougher voice, “though do try not to kiss him—I know it’s difficult—but I’m quite done with sharing.”

“Wha—” began John, not sure if Sherlock was joking and yet fairly certain he couldn’t possibly be serious, but he didn’t even make it to the end of the single word before Sherlock had plucked off John’s balaclava and captured his mouth.

Though he had never thought there was a possibility that Sherlock would return his much-suppressed feelings, John had still talked himself around and around whether Sherlock was even interested in _anybody_ , let alone his somewhat wear-worn and slightly broken flatmate and friend. Of all those imagined conversations and scenarios, John always thought there would be lots of discussion or awkward fumbling—possibly both. Despite all that, when he finally had Sherlock’s warm, exactly as plush and perfect as imagined lips upon his own, John didn’t stop or pull away to get things straight; instead, after a brief instant of shock, he surged up onto his toes, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders to pull them more tightly together. One of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands cupped the back of John’s head, the other hand shifting from John’s shoulder to curve around his body, catching a handful of the back of his jumper and boldly meeting John in that press of body to body.

Time dripped and dragged to something slow and distant once John had tilted his head and parted his lips, Sherlock’s tongue teasing John’s for a moment before twining and swirling in a heated dance of increasing passion. John hadn’t guessed Sherlock would even _know_ how to kiss, let alone do it well enough to make his knees the tiniest bit wobbly.

When they finally parted, breathing heavily, John saw Sherlock’s face was as flushed and his eyes as glazed and dilated as John knew his own would be. Blinking, licking his mildly tingling lips, John tried to recapture some words, but could only linger on tip-toe, arms still snugly around Sherlock, grinning like a nutter.

“I was wondering how much longer that was going to take,” James commented with subtle humour in his tone. “Too bad, though.”

Sherlock turned to give James a suspicious, narrow-eyed glare, finding words where John was still struggling. “Too bad about what?”

Smirking a little more blatantly, James tilted his chin at John, “The sharing. I’d hoped to have a bit more fun with him before you worked up your nerve.”

“James!” John said in startled chastisement. “What happened to discretion?”

Sherlock answered with a quirk of humour and smugness to his lips, “Doesn’t apply unless it’s a matter of national security.” He caught John’s gaze again, his own astonishingly heated as he added, “This is entirely a domestic affair.”

James’ mellow chuckle was his only reply, and he gave John a single, solid clap to the back of one shoulder before he bent to start securing the unconscious man on the ground, producing zip-ties from one of his pockets.

“No arguments, then?” Sherlock asked.

John wasn’t sure if he was speaking only to John, or including James, but John shook his head with a crooked little smile. “Nope. James is a good enough agent to know when a situation’s changed.”

“Has it, then?” Sherlock asked further, brows up.

“Oh, definitely,” John confirmed with a dip of his chin, smile still off-centre and flirty. “I’m done with sharing, as well. The only place we’re going after wrapping this up is back to Baker Street,” he said, glancing over at James and firming his tone as he concluded, “alone.”

“Yes, yes, message already received, John,” James said as if John were being a nuisance, though there was an underlying warmth John heard clearly enough. “Shall we get on with it? I’ve a mind to chat up that PA of Mycroft’s.”

“Fifty pounds says you make no headway, whatsoever,” John said, taking one hand off Sherlock to point at James. John recalled his own half-arsed attempt at flirting with ‘Anthea’ quite well.

“Make that a hundred,” Sherlock rumbled, tone full of evil delight.

James’ grin was slow, wicked, and ought to have been illegal somewhere. “You’re both on,” the agent drawled with a wink. “We’ll get together tomorrow morning and compare notes.”

Sherlock shook his head, voice slightly less evilly gleeful. “No, it’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

John’s brows went up, but James only laughed again, hauling hauled the now-restrained and still unconscious man up and over one shoulder. “Good point. Dinner tomorrow. I’ll text you.” He headed for their vehicle, parked in one of the few shadowy spots in the lot, walking as easily as if he wasn’t carrying a man nearly two-thirds his own weight.

“Afternoon, eh?” John challenged softly, wondering if he might wake up to find this was a strange, yet wonderful dream.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, John,” Sherlock explained, bending his head to catch John’s lips in a gentler, slower kiss that was, nevertheless, plenty full of heated promise.

“Best get moving, then,” John said once they’d parted again, voice a little thick with want.

They managed to pry themselves apart, though John could tell Sherlock was just as reluctant as he was, and joined James and their prisoner—clearly someone else’s agent, either following them or with similar intentions. With a promise of a report on both the outcome of their data-gathering mission and their bet at dinner the following evening, James dropped them off at Baker Street with a knowing grin and a chuckle that got cut off with the closing of the passenger door.

The following evening, the hundred pounds James dropped on the table at Angelo’s would have been enough to pay for a far more elaborate dinner than the three men ordered, had Angelo allowed them to pay, but it was fair compensation for James’ teasing glances and knowing smirks at the not-quite-hidden love bites on Sherlock’s neck or the slightly cautious way they both sat on their side of the table. However, that hundred was more than adequate to pay for the next three days’ assorted delivered food from John and Sherlock’s favourite local restaurants, since they didn’t bother leaving the flat—or even getting fully dressed. They had a lot of catching up to do, indeed.


End file.
